


There Is An Ornament Lost Inside The Night

by Duck_Life



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Angst, Christmas Fluff, F/F, Gen, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Snowball Fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:43:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5332898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmases through the years. Jessica and Trish lose each other and find each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Is An Ornament Lost Inside The Night

It’s 2012 and it snows and snows. Wreaths adorn doors and lights adorn roofs, fake electric candles burn endlessly in windowsills. All the shops that were open close down early for Christmas Eve as Jessica winds through the streets.

Her nose is bright red and her fingers are numb by the time she gets to Trish’s apartment.

“Ho ho ho,” Trish says, swinging the door wide open to greet her wearing jingling reindeer antlers.

“Don’t slut shame,” Jessica says, smirking at her as she elbows her way inside. “I’m cold. Where’s the booze? Need to get a liquor blanket going.”

“How about an actual blanket?” Trish says, tossing one at her as she closes her door. “Why aren’t you more festive?”

Jessica glances down at her admittedly un-festive outfit. “What are you talking about?” she shrugs. “I wore my nice leather jacket.”

“Fine, Scrooge,” she says, making her way toward the kitchen. “Don’t look in your stocking!”

“I have a _stocking_?” Jessica says, looking over at the mantle where there is, indeed, a red and white stocking hanging up on a hook with a monogrammed “J” on it. “I have a stocking.”

“Of course you do,” Trish says, pouring ingredients into her cocktail shaker. “It’s Christmas.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Jess reminds her. “You know, if we open presents on Christmas Eve, Santa gets mad.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Trish says, bringing two perfectly made peppermint martinis into the living room with her. “For you,” she says, offering one to Jessica. “There’s peppermint on the rim.”

“I see that,” Jessica says, tasting it. “Mmm. Okay, when do they start serving this in Starbucks?”

“We can only dream,” Trish says, lounging back on the couch. “Okay, what do you want to watch? Rudolph or The Year Without a Santa Claus?”

“Rudolph’s Shiny New Year.”

“ _Jess_.” Trish is actually pouting. “It’s Christmas. _Christmas_.”

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Trish groans, and sips her martini. “We are not watching a New Year’s movie.”

“But it’s so good.”

“No.”

“Rudolph and Frosty’s Christmas in July?”

“ _No_.”

“Alright, clearly we’re not going to reach an agreement here,” Jessica decides, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, “especially if you can’t even discern the good Rudolph movies from the mediocre ones.”

“ _You can’t beat the original Rudolph, Jessica_.”

“Oh really? You can’t beat the original?” Jess says, rearing up for a fight. “What about _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ , huh? The movie was better? You think the movie was better than the series?”

“We are not having this conversation again.”

“It’s the _original_ , Trish.”

“Just… go look in your stocking,” Trish sighs, giving up and opting for peace. It is Christmas, after all. Well. Christmas Eve.

It’s 2013, and the snow falls pristine and perfect like in a tiny Christmas village. The mall has its giant Christmas tree up, and Santa Claus there to listen to bratty ten-year-olds ask for Xboxes. Ribbons and fake snowmen line the corridors, and Macy’s is bedecked with sleighs and bells and poinsettias.

Jessica walks through the department store, knowing she can have anything there that she wants.

She wants to die.

“How about this one?” Kilgrave says, picking a dark violet sweater off the rack. “Looks nice. Not very _Christmassy_ , I suppose, hm.” He holds it up against her, comparing size, coloring. “Go and try it on.”

She does.

They pay for nothing they take from the store, not the clothes or shoes or the jewelry he picks out for her. The man working the register even helps carry everything outside to the car.

The radio’s all commercials on the drive back to the apartment Kilgrave’s chosen for this week. “You know someday,” he promises, “I’ll figure out how to control the bloody machines, too.”

Jessica purses her lips and says nothing. Any opportunity not to smile, she takes.

“Come on,” he complains, twisting the knob on the radio. “I want to hear _music_. Jessica,” he says, “sing a Christmas carol for me.”

Her mouth drops open and the first carol to come to her mind pops out. “ _Silent night_ ,” she sings, remembering sixth grade chorus. “ _Holy night_. _All is calm-_ ”

“Stop.” She does. “Changed my mind. Something more… modern.”

It takes her a second, and she can feel him getting annoyed. It’s hard to think; she feels the twist in her gut that comes whenever it takes too long to follow a command. “ _Last Christmas_ ,” she sings, her voice as steady as she can make it, “ _I gave you my heart, but the very next day, you gave it away_.”

He nods in approval. Jessica keeps singing.

There are twelve voicemails on her phone, unheard, unanswered. _It’s Christmassy_ , Jessica thinks. One for each day of Christmas.

“Patsy’s still calling, then?” Kilgrave says, irritated. He pours himself a tall glass of eggnog. “I thought you told her to stop.”

Jessica grits her teeth. “I did.”

“Smile.”

She does.

“She’s probably worrying,” he sighs. “Worrier, that one. She’ll get wrinkles early.”

Jessica swallows drily. “I could call her,” she suggests, trying not to let on how much she needs that little lifeline, that spark of hope. “I could call her and tell her… not to call. That I’m fine.”

“And wish her a merry Christmas,” he says, nodding. “Well, I am sick of all the calling and the _worrying_.” He hands Jessica her cell phone. “Give her a call. Tell her Merry Christmas. And tell her _to leave you alone_.”

Jessica nods and hits the call button. It rings twice before Trish picks up. She doesn’t even give Jessica time to say hello.

“Jesus Christ,” her voice comes down the line, “where have you been? I mean, I get that there’s, I don’t know, a _fight_ going on, but come on, Jess, it’s Christmas. I went to your apartment and it didn’t look like you’d been there in _weeks_. What the hell?”

As angry as it is, Trish’s familiar voice washes over her, a wave of relief. It’s like being in hell and having a hand reach through the flames, grasp at yours. Even if just for a moment.

“Merry Christmas,” Jessica says, and Trish explodes all over again.

“Merry Christmas?” she says, and Jessica can picture her so clearly, her eyebrows scrunching together, her wild hand gestures. Standing in her kitchen, drinking a glass of water. “ _Merry Christmas_? I’m over here thinking you’ve been _murdered_ or _worse_ , Jess.”

“I’m fine,” she says, nails digging into her palm. “I’m okay. You don’t need to worry.”

“I’m not _worried_ ,” Trish clarifies. “I’m _pissed_. And worried. Yes, I’m worried. Where are you?”

Jessica looks up at Kilgrave, tells the lie of her own volition, knowing that anything she says to the contrary might result in hours, days, of jumping jacks, or maybe he’ll think of something new. He’s always thinking of something new. “I’m spending the holidays with my boyfriend,” she says.

Trish scoffs. “That British guy? Jeez, you could have told me. Oh my God, you’re not in England, are you?”

She wants this call to go on forever. She wants to crawl through the phone and hide in the sound of Trish’s voice.

“Wrap it up,” Kilgrave says.

She does. “I’m fine, Trish,” she says again. “Stop calling me. Leave me alone. Bye.”

She doesn’t want to hit the end call button, _God_ , she doesn’t want to.

She doesn’t want any of it.

It’s 2014 and the snow turns gray as soon as it hits the ground, clumping up in ugly mounds all over the city. One decrepit, depressing snowman slumps on the sidewalk outside Jessica’s apartment building.

There’s a knock on the door, and Jessica wades through the discarded trash on the floor and her own drunken stupor to answer it.

“Feliz navidad,” Trish says without fanfare. She’s holding a present in her hand. “Can I come in?”

Jessica blinks, combs her tangled hair back out of her face. “It’s Christmas?”

“Yep,” Trish says, letting herself in without waiting for an invite. “You look surprised. You know it almost _always_ comes between December 24 th and December 26th.”

Jessica nods, looking around her apartment like she’s not sure how she got there. “Did you walk here?”

“I took a cab,” Trish assures her. “It’s freezing out there.”

Jessica wasn’t worried about the temperature, but at least a cab is better than walking. She thinks about the taxi driver, though, who he might have been, who might have been pulling his strings. She sees purple and has to sit down.

“You want some hot cocoa?” Trish says, forcing the normalcy in her voice. She sets the present she brought down on Jessica’s desk.

“I… I don’t have any,” says Jess.

“That’s okay.” Trish walks to the kitchen and pulls out two mugs. “I always carry an emergency supply of Swiss Miss.”

The mugs dance in the microwave, two at once because apparently Trish is feeling reckless. She takes a spot on the couch and looks at Jessica, perched in her chair, exhausted, wary. “Are you sleeping?”

“Now?” Jessica says, the shadow of a smirk on her face.

Trish rolls her eyes. “You don’t look like you’re getting enough sleep.”

“I sleep when I need it,” she says, stretching. “What’s the present?”

“A surprise,” Trish says, tossing it to her. It really is a horrendous wrapping job, fifteen pieces of tape and jagged edges of paper.

“I can tell you wrapped it yourself,” Jessica points out.

“ _Shut up_.”

“I didn’t get you anything,” Jessica says, quiet. “I, um, I didn’t think. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Jessica’s hands shake as she rips open the paper to reveal a knit gray infinity scarf. It feels warm and heavy in her hands.

“I know it’s not much,” Trish says. “Just… you always look so _cold-_ ”

“I love it,” Jessica says.

And she does.

It’s 2015 and the snow blankets the earth, soft and inviting. Gingerbread houses line the window of a bakery. Animatronic reindeer bob their heads from a balcony.

Jessica pelts Trish’s window with a real monster of a snowball and Trish, a Santa hat on her head, pops out to scowl.

“Jessica!” she yells into the street. “Would you cut that out?”

“Just made yourself a target,” Jess calls back, scooping up two handfuls of snow and molding them together. “You might wanna duck back inside!”

Trish doesn’t take her seriously until the snowball comes whizzing toward her head and she jumps away with a shriek. “That’s _not_ funny.”

“It’s funny from down here!”

“Get your ass up here before you get pneumonia!”

Jessica hums in the elevator on the way up and raps on the door to Trish’s apartment with a small smile on her face. Instead of the door opening, though, Trish’s camera pops on.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking to see if you’re unarmed,” Trish says, and Jessica can _hear_ her glare. “Hands up, lady. If you’re stashing any snowballs, I want to know.”

“Trish, I did not bring any snowballs up here.”

“Prove it.”

Sighing, Jessica holds her hands up in surrender. Neither holds a snowball.

“Alright,” Trish says cautiously, opening the door. “But if I see even a _flake-_ ”

“Please, I know better than to threaten your upholstery,” she says, sidling in. The tree is fake but it still looks pretty all lit up. The “J” stocking hangs from the mantle. “Wow, it… really feels like Christmas in here.”

“Good,” Trish says, unwrapping a candy cane. “I figured if you were _finally_ taking a night off from superheroing, you deserved a good one.”

“I take nights off,” Jess says, and Trish scoffs. “I do! Occasionally. Who told you I don’t take nights off?”

Trish winks. “I will not betray my confidantes.”

“You know I can go outside and make more snowballs?”

“Malcolm and I go to Panera every week,” Trish says, giving in easy.

Jessica raises an eyebrow. “He _reports_ on me?”

“He doesn’t _report_ on you,” she says. “You come up into conversation, occasionally.”

“You are _spying_ on me.”

“Oh, no I’m not,” Trish says, gesturing with her candy cane. “The two of us have more in common than just _you_ , you know.”

Jessica looks at her. Less than a year ago she tried to bury a bullet in her brain with her own hands. She knows what Trish has been through, she knows what Malcolm has been through. She’s been through it all, too. Doesn’t mean she’s fine talking about it. “Scrapbooking?” she says.

“Oh, yes,” Trish replies. “We’re avid scrapbookers.”

“Good,” Jess says. “Hobbies are good.”

The snow falls outside and the lights twined around the tree twinkle. “Let’s watch Rudolph.”

“Rudolph’s Shiny New Year,” Jessica demands.

“You are _not_ putting on that goddamn movie,” Trish says, watching the resolve in Jessica’s face with a sinking heart.

“Oh yes I am,” she says.

And she does.

 

 

 


End file.
